


Maurice

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Cats, Gen, Morse gets a pet forced upon him, Pets, Soft Morse, Something to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 03:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20001967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: The latest crime scene has come with a spitting, hissing, angry Tom of a cat. He is dumped on Morse.This turns out to be a good thing. Morse needs something to love.





	Maurice

**Author's Note:**

> I think we've all been somewhat stolen away by Good Omens at the moment (I certainly have) and for my Endeavour return I planned many things - not one of them a cat fic. I've never owned a cat. I'm a dog person. I don't know what I'm doing...

“ _What_ is _that?_!”

Strange looks up from his notepad. “It's a cat, Morse.”

It's more than a cat. It's a hissing, ginger tom of a thing. Its flashbacks, a miniature tiger in disguise. It'll be destroying evidence.

“Get it out of here!”

Strange seems singularly unconcerned, and shrugs, stepping around Dr DeBryn to approach the wild thing. “Must have been the victim's. It's probably been trapped for a while, poor thing.” He stoops, holding one hand out to the cat. It hisses again. Morse edges behind Strange to investigate the papers on the desk; perhaps the Lady Wertworth had corresponded with her killer.

“It probably started eating _her._ ”

“Morse!” Strange edges forwards, and the cat jumps backwards. “It's her pet, he wouldn't-”

“Actually, it is a widely known fact that felines will survive any way they can, distasteful as it may be to our sensibilities.” DeBryn gets to his feet. “Although in this case, the hunger pangs hadn't yet set in. She's been dead around four hours, I'd wager. No evidence of tooth marks,” he adds, smirking when Strange nods and notes it down. “You can have my full report around 2pm.” He heads to the door, then looks back. “Someone will need to take care of that cat.”

“Will you?” Morse gives up on the desk, and moves over to the fireplace. There are a few charred pieces of paper, and he carefully extracts one with his fingernails, but its just an edge, no lettering. Thin paper.

“Gosh no. Another five minutes in this room and I'd have to give myself an injection of diphenhydramine.” He glances from blank face to blank face. “Antihistamine. Allergies.”

“No worries Doctor,” Strange says, finally succeeding in scooping the cat off the floor. “We'll see to it.”

Morse grimaces at the bundle of bad-tempered orange fluff. The cat stares balefully back.

–

“Not a chance, Win would be wheezing before I got within five feet of the door.”

“Sorry, I'd love to,” the cat deigns to allow Trewlove to stroke his head, and chuck under his chin, “but my boarding house doesn't allow pets.”

“Really, Morse, I do think as head of this department you'd realise I had more important things to get on with than babysitting a cat.”

Morse slumps in his chair. “Why can't you just have the cat?” he asks Strange. “You've bonded.”

Strange pokes a finger through the carrier they'd unearthed back at the house, and the cat licks it, somewhat half-heartedly. Morse is sure if he tried that, he'd end up with a bloody stump.

“Maurice.”

“What?”

“The cat, his name is Maurice.”

“Right, of course.” He's just about to ask again when the phone rings. “Morse.”

“ _Morse, excellent, I was hoping you'd be there.”_

“Doctor?”

“ _I've completed the autopsy, and given the circumstances, thought I'd save you a trip. Nothing untoward with this one, just an elderly lady who's heart gave up on her._ ”

“But the struggle-”

“ _Well, naturally, investigate further if you wish, but I do believe that could have been caused by her fall. Were there any signs someone else was there?”_

There hadn't been.

“ _Perhaps just once it was what it seemed. You can come pick up the written report when you're in the area, rather than rushing over today._ ”

He hummed.

“ _Have you got that cat sorted yet?”_

“Strange says it's name is Maurice.”

“ _I'll take that as a yes."_ There's a click, and then he's listening to the dial tone. 

“DeBryn says natural causes,” he passes on. “I'll start the report.”

“I've got my family coming over this weekend, the flat will be stuffed to the gills.” Morse looked up at Strange, quizzically. “The cat,” he added. “They need peace and quiet to settle in a new place.” He pulled on his jacket, picking up the basket and swinging it over to Morse's desk. “Looks like you've got yourself a lodger, matey!”

–

Against his better judgement, Morse had carried the basket home with him, steadfastly ignoring the strange looks he got walking the streets of Oxford with a yowling cat demon. Inside, he'd slammed the flat door, flung open the top of the basket, and cracked open a new bottle of whiskey.

Now, they were staring at each other.

“I don't care if you ever come out,” he tells the eyes shining from within. “In fact, it would suit me if you didn't.”

His home isn't exactly cat proof, after all. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, and stands up. He grabs abandoned clothes from the floor and piles them on the chair, then makes sure his records are out of reach on the table. After a second thought, he wraps a towel around them for further protection. He gathers crockery that's been building up on the various surfaces and dumps it all in the sink. The flat looks... less like a tornado has swung through it.

He swills out a saucer, and after giving the milk a good sniff, fills it with water instead. A search through the cupboards reveals a can of tuna which must have been there before he moved in, because he can't stand the stuff. It's one way to get rid of it. He holds his breath as he tips it into a second saucer, grabs his coat, and heads to the pub.

–

By the time he gets home, he's had a couple too many and honestly forgotten about the cat altogether.

Which is why, waking up four hours later to a shrieking alarm with a purring lump on his chest gives him a minor heart attack, as he half sits up, bats blindly at the beside table to silence the noise, and falls back down, breathing heavily through the extra weight.

The cat – Maurice, he remembers – kneads his paws, tiny pinpricks through his shirt, and Morse hisses at him, giving him a not so gentle push down to the floor.

In the kitchen, he trips over the saucers of tuna and water.

“Bloody cat,” he spits, one arm half into his shirt and head aching from last night's whiskey. “Thought we agreed you'd stay in your basket.” He wolfs down some toast and half a cup of tea that scalds his throat and makes him realise he forgot to throw away the off milk. As an afterthought, he tips the dregs into the water saucer on the floor. “By the time I get home-” he waves a finger threateningly at Maurice, who licks delicately at one paw, sitting on his pillow- “I will have a _solution_ for you.”

–

Of course, that's when it all goes to hell.

Another dead body, although actually, when they get called out, they realise its _three_. And with Strange away there's way too many leads for the team to chase down, so they're working flat out exploring all angles. It finally, finally feels like he might be getting somewhere when Thursday pokes his head out of his office.

“Morse?”

“Mmm?” He's comparing photos, class pictures with newspaper articles from Frazil, he's sure there's something-

“You ought to be getting home.”

“No, there's something here, I'm just not seeing it-”

Thursday pulls the photos out of his hands. “You've been working for eighteen hours straight, and if I'm not mistaken, you came in this morning a little... unrested.” Morse snorts at the euphemism. “I'm surprised you can still see these, let alone focus,” he flaps the stack of pictures, and Morse reaches for them again.

“Just let me-”

“Home, Morse.” His tone brooks no argument. “Besides, haven't you got that cat to feed?”

Damn.

–

He heads home quickly, dashing into the corner shop just before the owner was about to pull down the shutter. He seems mollified when Morse grabs tins of fish, milk, bread, whiskey and tea bags then tops it all off with a bag of cat litter – he's spent as much as he'd usually spend on a week's shop.

He stamps up the stairs and turns his key in the lock. Opening the door, he almost crushes Maurice who was waiting beside it.

“Get back, you stupid cat,” he mutters, pushing him aside with one leg as he inches through the opening. The last thing he needs is to have to chase the damn thing down the corridor if he makes a break for freedom.

Although on second thought, he could not chase him down.

He grins, and leaves the door wide open as he puts away the shopping, but Maurice simply sits in the middle of the floor, watching the buzz of activity. Morse groans when he notices the accident, and curses a completely unfazed Maurice while clearing it up and putting out some litter. He's loathe to offer more food, but unless he can teach a cat to use a toilet, it seems this is the way things are going to go.

He places a saucer of mackerel and a refill of fresh water on the floor. Maurice twines about his ankles, his fur brushing softly up his trousers just where his socks end.

–

The alarm blares, and Morse gasps a lungful of cat fur, sitting up and dislodging Maurice.

Today, the tea is actually drinkable. He still scalds his mouth and tips the second half into the saucer.

–

The night shift had made almost zero progress, but in the morning light the pictures rearrange themselves and suddenly make _sense_. They spend the rest of a long day chasing down the culprits, but when five o'clock rolls around the cells are occupied, and the job is done.

“Quick drink?” asks Thursday, and Morse follows him to their usual. “Good work today lad,” he says, after they've both taken a fortifying gulp. “Knew a bit of sleep would knock that brain into shape.”

“Mmm.”

They drink mostly in silence; after a day like today there's no energy for conversation. But also because its companionable, and because usually its Strange who carries the small talk, and he's still with his family.

“Right.” Thursday sets his glass down, empty, and picks up his hat. “Best be off. Win'll be wondering where I've got to.”

Morse watches him go, and considers ordering another pint. The table next door has left a newspaper, and he can see the crossword is still blank. He sees an ad for cat food and sighs, shrugging into his coat.

–

“You're ruining my social life,” he tells Maurice later that evening, spooning some of the filling from his steak pie onto yet another saucer.

He falls asleep to the sound of Wagner, a warm bundle pressed up against his side.

–

“I've been asking around,” Strange greets him the next morning. He looks even more chipper than usual; the break has obviously done him good.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my old school friend promised his kid a pet for his birthday, but they can't be bothered with the whole house training thing. Said I knew of a cat going spare.”

“Spare?”

Strange sits on the edge of his desk, tea cup looking small in his hands. “Yeah... Maurice, you know. You didn't bump him off, did you?”

“No, I...” Morse trails off. “We've got too much work to do to talk about cats,” he snaps, shoving some files into Strange's hands. “We had a triple murder while you were gone so these,” he opens the top file to show a picture of a Morris Minor and taps it pointedly with his finger, “took a back seat. But Bright wants us on them now, the top one belonged to someone Mrs Bright plays bridge with, stolen two days ago from outside their house.”

Strange looks at him oddly, but nods and skims the file.

–

Morse swills the whiskey in his glass, thoughtfully. He's sat in his chair, lap full of Maurice, keeping away the chill. There's... maybe another ten minutes before he has to get up and change records. He buries his free hand in orange fur and breathes deeply.

A sharp knock is immediately followed by the doorknob turning. “Matey?”

Morse freezes. Maurice stretches and re-curls.

“Oh,” says Strange, opening the door fully and seeing the tableau. Morse feels strangely like he's been caught out; trousers round his ankles, or stealing from the staff Christmas party jar. “You seem to be getting on better.”

Morse nods, sharply. “He, um. Got clingier when he left the basket.”

Strange may not have quite the keen eyes he does, but Morse tracks his gaze as he takes in the saucers in the kitchen, the litter box made up from an old baking tray he's never used, and the orange hair on the bedspread.

“May I?” Strange asks, gesturing to the whiskey bottle.

“Sure, uh-” He goes to stand, shove Maurice to the floor, but Strange waves him off and gets his own glass from the kitchen. He pours himself a generous measure, and tops off Morse's glass.

“Looks like he's taken to you,” he remarks.

“Well he is a stupid cat.”

Strange grins, and shakes his head. “Don't know why you insist you're so unlikable, Morse.” He tips back a sizeable mouthful of whiskey, and winces, always more of a beer drinker.

“Long years of experience,” Morse quips with a smirk.

“Well. I'll tell Bob he's out of luck.”

“Bob?”

“School friend, spare cat. Not so spare any more.”

“Oh.” Morse stares down at Maurice, who has gone to sleep. “I don't want a pet.”

Strange studies Morse, who seems rumpled but at least vaguely rested. Notes the clear eyes, which suggest that despite it being almost nine, the whiskey Strange interrupted is the first of the evening. And the dishes piled in the sink, which paired with the faint aroma of onions, speak of the fact that he's actually eaten a meal today.

“Looks like you've got one.” The record finishes, and in the silence Strange stands up. “What do you want it changed to?”

“Huh?” Morse has been staring at Maurice again, the hand not holding whiskey making aborted strokes down his back. “Oh, just set this one off again.”

Strange moves the needle back to the start, and finishes his whiskey with a grimace. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Morse responds, but Strange can see he's already drifting away. His strokes have evened out to mirror the swell of the music, and underneath the strings and flutes, he can just hear a steady, rumbling purr.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Morse will never take care of himself... but neither will he allow someone (or something) else to suffer. So get him a damn pet already - the routine means he'll sleep more, eat more, and drink less!


End file.
